


He Who Laughs

by amiesce



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Power Dynamics, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Ransom gets away with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22281127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiesce/pseuds/amiesce
Summary: Here’s the thing. If Ransom doesn’t confess to the crime, they’ve got nothing on him. The trial goes to hell. Marta goes home.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 8
Kudos: 197





	He Who Laughs

**Author's Note:**

> The whole legal premise of this story is based off of Broadchurch season two which is set in the UK and probably has no bearing on Massachusetts state law, so sue me. Please don’t actually sue me because I know nothing about law and will definitely lose. 
> 
> Idk if I’m going to extend this beyond a one-shot. It hurt me to write this. If anyone else wants to write Ransom getting away with it, please. I’ll read it and cry. Marta is god and we don’t deserve her.

Conviction of first degree murder in the state of Massachusetts gets a person life imprisonment without parole. Ransom does not plead guilty. His trial is heated and contentious, generating a social media firestorm. The line “I killed Fran, except I didn’t” becomes the most heated point of contention in the defense’s arsenal. Did these frustrated words really count as a confession? Wasn’t Ransom simply being facetious? Couldn’t he have been joking in response to the absurdly unfounded claims that had just been hurled in his face (in the nonliteral sense)?

The writing is on the wall when the defense gets Ransom’s taped confession thrown out of evidence.

Here’s the thing. If Ransom doesn’t confess to the crime, they’ve got nothing on him. Sure, ol’ Benny has his hunch, but this isn’t a Harlan Thrombey novel. You need solid evidence if you’re going to charge someone with murder, and Benoit Blanc has squat.

Fran dies of a morphine overdose, but the only fingerprints on the bottle, syringe, and bag belong to Fran and Marta. And Great Nana is a riot on the witness stand. Are we really supposed to believe the words of a near-deaf and senile old woman? 

And isn’t it possible that Detective Blanc and Marta are having an affair? Couldn’t they have conferred during their drive to the police station to murder Fran, and to frame Ransom Thrombey with a series of ludicrous conjectures?

Is it possible that Marta herself switched the medicine bottles, thereby tricking Harlan Thrombey into committing suicide?

The defense only needs to raise reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury. If the jurors aren’t _absolutely_ sure that Hugh Ransom Drysdale has murdered the housekeeper and attempted to murder his late grandfather, then there can be no conviction. 

And Ransom, with his piercing blue eyes and broad shoulders, filling out that hideous orange jumpsuit like a GQ model, exudes the same quiet steadfast charm that got Marta to spill the beans (in the nonliteral sense). The jury doesn’t stand a chance.

There’s no conviction. Sure, he gets a slap on the wrist for the arson and knocking Marta to the ground with a stage prop, but he doesn’t get punished for the thing that _matters_. And when Marta’s finished having her cry in the courthouse bathroom, she comes out and tells her lawyers that she doesn’t want to pursue the matter any longer, and she wants to go home.

She gets to keep the house. The blatant lies tossed around by the defense attorneys—lies that would have flipped Marta’s stomach inside-out—will no doubt be added to the slayer rule suckerpunch that the rest of the Thrombey clan is attempting to put together. Alice wonders if the family will let Ransom join the lawsuit now that the trial’s out of the way, but Mama scolds her for joking about it. 

All Marta can do is bulk up the security around the house a third time and have her lawyers write up a restraining order, ready to backhand across Ransom’s face if he so much as toes the property line. 

He doesn’t show up. Until one day he does, when Mama and Alice are off visiting college campuses. Marta comes down the stairs and feels her soul leave her body when she sees Ransom standing in front of Harlan’s portrait. She grabs for the phone in her pocket, ready to press the panic button that will alert security.

Her scream dies in her throat as she takes him in. He’s lost some weight, but his intimidation factor has never relied on his bulk. Those blue eyes draw you in long before you realize you’ve got a hook through your tongue.

No, his brief stint in prison has not reformed Ransom in any sense of the word. And the trial? Simply a whetstone for his prodigious ability to manipulate: grinding his meanness to a precise, straight edge. Benoit says as much to her when he drives her home from the courthouse. The detective means for it to be comforting, going on to conclude that Ransom’s grit is coarser than the boy would like to believe—a whetstone joke that Marta does not bother trying to understand. Marta does not feel comforted.

She does not feel comforted now, even when Ransom does nothing but stand in front of the portrait of his grandfather (whom he murdered). Nor when he turns casually to her and comments, “I’m surprised you kept the painting up.”

Marta changes her mind in an instant, and begins a video recording of the inside of her pocket instead of calling security. “Why is that surprising?” she asks, and hears how shaky she sounds. _Be brave, Marta_.

Ransom shrugs, his shoulders moving lazily. “Doesn’t it rack you with guilt?”

“Why would I feel guilty? _You_ killed him, Ransom.”

Ransom meets her eyes and she swallows hard. “That’s not what I came here to talk about,” he says.

“I want to talk about it,” she replies. Her palms are damp in her pockets, and she slowly pulls them out of her hoodie to cross her arms over her chest. 

“If you insist,” Ransom shrugs again, and starts walking toward her.

Marta takes a step back instinctively, then holds her ground. She lifts her chin and asks, “Why did you kill your grandfather?”

Ransom comes to a stop, way too close to her. He looks down his nose at her (he’s always doing that) and replies, “Why don’t you take your phone out of your pocket first?”

She doesn’t move, although she knows she probably can’t keep the deer-in-headlights look out of her eyes. If he lays a hand on her, she can scream for the guards and call it assault. He shouldn’t even _be_ here.

“Marta, your phone,” Ransom repeats, and he’s still too large and too imposing for her to feel anything but skittish and unsafe. She remembers the weight of his body, still dreams about it and wakes up drenched in sweat, clutching at her chest for a bloodstain that isn’t there.

“Fine,” she breathes out, taking a step back and pulling her phone out of her pocket. He plucks it easily out of her trembling fingers, ends the video and deletes it, then goes into her trash folder and deletes it from there too. She just stands there, watching him do it.

“You should really be asking me how I got past your security,” Ransom says as he hands the phone back to her.

She’s burning to know the answer to that question as well, but first she just _needs_ to hear the words from his mouth. From those cruel lips that only know how to tell lies.

“Why did you kill Harlan?” she asks, whispering. “There are no cameras here, no tape recorders. Please tell me, Ransom.” (She sees his eyes flit down to her throat and back up when she says _please._ )

He presses his lips together, then relaxes into a short, humorless chuckle. “I’ll have to pat you down for wires first.”

Marta lets out a soft gasp and takes another step back, even though she can tell that he’s joking. Ransom follows her, and he’s going to corner her against the wall if she isn’t careful. Marta’s fingers clench around her phone, but she has to see this conversation through to the end. _Be cool. Be calm._

“Then answer this question,” Marta hedges, and wishes she could sound half as confident as Ransom does all the time. Then again, would that only make her more like him? She wets her lips, sees Ransom’s eyes linger on her mouth, and asks, “Were you trying kill me?”

His gaze flits languidly up to meet hers. “Yeah,” he admits easily. “Not anymore, though.”

She can’t believe a single word he says. Especially when he looks so _earnest_ saying it. That's what got her into this whole mess in the first place.

“Was it really just for the money?” she whispers. She hears the beg in her voice, and knows he will be able to hear it too.

Ransom leans in and she lowers her eyes in automatic deference. He’s not wearing cologne and what she smells is _just_ him. Slightly woodsy, slightly wind-buffeted. How long has he been waiting outside the house?

He says, “I wasn’t joking about the wires, Marta.”

Her entire body tenses and she wants so badly to run, but Marta forces herself to lift her chin. Their faces are so close that they could kiss, and Marta does her best to ignore her brain screaming _too close! Last time he was this close he tried to stab you in the heart_.

“Are you worried about incriminating yourself?” she asks, and she sounds ice cold.

Ransom pulls back, and the muscles around his eyes are tight. “Can’t. Double jeopardy.”

Marta swallows again. “Why are you so afraid, Ransom?”

He laughs, harsh and mean, and Marta flinches.

“You need more than just a foot patrol in those woods,” Ransom says, stepping back.

Even with the new distance between them, Marta feels like she can’t breathe.

“Install a laser grid or some fancy shit,” Ransom adds. “You’ve still got our money. I doubt you blew it all on the trial.”

He strolls up to the front door like he _hasn’t_ broken into her house, invaded her sanctuary, given her new fuel for her nightmares. Marta watches him leaving, too scared and angry to speak.

“If you had, you mighta won,” he quips over his shoulder. _Horrible, he’s horrible._ “Later, Marta.”

She dreams him laughing as he plunges the knife into her.


End file.
